


Outside The Snow Is Falling And Friends Are Calling Yoohoo

by gala_apples



Series: Sleigh Ride 'verse [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Barebacking, Christmas, Established Relationship, F/M, M/M, Orgy, Polyamory, Recreational Drug Use, Sensation Play, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:01:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28288116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gala_apples/pseuds/gala_apples
Summary: Richie loves the Losers more than anything. The same is true of Steve and Nancy and Jonathan. Thankfully they've managed to negotiate four days in which they put their primary relationships aside to have each other. Christmas Eve is one of those days.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Mike Hanlon/Ben Hanscom/Eddie Kaspbrak/Beverly Marsh/Richie Tozier/Stanley Uris, Jonathan Byers/Steve Harrington/Nancy Wheeler, Steve Harrington/Richie Tozier
Series: Sleigh Ride 'verse [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2066124
Kudos: 6





	Outside The Snow Is Falling And Friends Are Calling Yoohoo

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the seasonofkink holiday challenge, where you pick at least three kinks to go into your fic. I went with eight. Specifically, threesomes, orgies, rituals, flirting and seduction, exhibitionism, unusual positions, intoxicated sex, and barebacking.

Richie enjoys morning showers with Steve. They don’t happen all the time. Literally can’t happen every day, because Steve’s hair care regime has him washing it every three days to preserve the natural oils. Even then though, if Steve has the opening shift at Blockbuster and Richie’s been out until three with his sketch troupe he’s not getting up to get sudsy at seven am. But it’s Christmas Eve and neither of them work for days so here Richie finds himself, pressing kisses to the wet plane of Steve’s back, smell of green apple crisp in the air. 

Richie can’t really help himself when he maneuvers Steve against the tiled wall. He cock just fits so well between Steve’s cheeks. He could fuck Steve now, there’s silicone lube in the shower caddy, but it seems a little possessive, given the date. Instead he just ruts against his boyfriend to completion then whips him around and inhales his cock. Richie’s a fuckin’ master at sucking dick, if he does say so himself. Only once they’re both done do they rinse the thick pasty conditioner out. Richie doesn’t care enough to bother when he showers alone, but Steve cares enough for the both of them and will slather it on him.

Richie knows better than to get in the way of the post shower leave in products, so he ducks out and makes for the kitchen. He pours himself a massive bowl of cereal, and Steve a much smaller one. Not because Steve eats less, he’ll end up having three bowls, but because his sweet spoiled baby can’t stand milk turning room temperature.

“Any certain plans for the day?” Steve asks once he joins him on the neon plaid cushioned kitchen chairs. All the comfort of a country kitchen with none of the sad aesthetic, courtesy of the talented Bev Marsh. 

“I’m sure we’ll end up doing something outside for the active among us. Snowball fight or poinsettia farm tour or something. And Mike will make us his heavenly Kitkat candy cane hot chocolate. And I’m definitely going to suck someone’s dick. Other than that, not sure. We’re all pretty spontaneous, not like your crew.”

“They’re not that bad.”

“I didn’t say it was bad, Ulysses. I said there’s no way Nancy ‘Type A’ Wheeler doesn’t have an itinerary.” 

Steve points his spoon at him. “Fair point. I’m sure there’ll be a big list of activities. Plus it’s been a different position every time, I think they’re working their way through the Kama Sutra.” 

“Ohhhh, exotic.”

“Me, exotic? Your guest list is double mine.”

“So we both win our respective categories,” Richie replies, clinking his spoon against Steve’s in a metal hug five, never mind the wet cereal that falls to the table. “But we all know the real winners are the Trojan stock holders.”

Steve snorts. “Dork.”

Around eleven Richie has to leave. The Beehive is in a very different neighbourhood from where they live, apartment complexes not really fitting in with mansions, and the commute will take a while. Richie double checks that his duffle is full of all the necessary items, and kisses his boyfriend goodbye.

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“At ten, baby,” Steve agrees. 

Then Richie is tugging on his parka and boots, slinging his bag over his shoulder and heading for the underground parkade where his shitty Ford is. It’s Christmas Eve. December twenty fourth. One of the four days of the year they can do this. He doesn’t want to be late.

***

Steve gets to Nancy and Jonathan’s apartment just before one. He would have been earlier, but he wasn’t anticipating the traffic jams of a billion citizens all trying to get to their own Christmas Eve brunches. The only thing that keeps him from going nuts in the car when he hasn’t moved more than one light in fifteen minutes is knowing he’s the best off of all these angry schmucks. They’re going to go have stressful conversations with family they only force themselves to see once a year. Steve, on the other hand, is about to get dicked down hard.

Well, eventually. First he has to actually make contact. It’s quicker to run up the flights of stairs than to wait for the rickety wheezing elevator -and Steve might have a lifelong phobia of elevators now, no big deal- so Steve takes the flights with his duffle bouncing against his hip. The door he needs is covered in a wreath, all plastic pine needles and red velvet bows and tiny gold bells. It’s tacky as hell, but El picked it out when she and Will last visited, so Steve knows it’ll be hanging up every Christmas until they’re ninety.

It takes one knock for Jonathan to open the door. Steve knows it’s not just because they have a studio and the front door could be opened from any spot in the apartment within three steps. It’s because they’ve been waiting on him as much as he’s been waiting for them. The proof is in the way Jonathan crushes him into a hug, and then how Nancy’s flitting in to cover the parts of him that haven’t been enveloped yet. 

“You’re late,” Nancy says.

“There was traffic,” Steve protests weakly.

“Plan for traffic,” Nancy tells him for maybe the hundredth time. Back when they were dating in high school she was always calling him for rides and thereby getting him to school on time. Richie does not have the same effect, because Richie tends towards an every man for himself stance on travelling. Ten years from now Steve might be late to his own civil union because Richie said he’ll catch him there.

A hello hug is not out of the norm, technically speaking. It’s kind of a Party & associates cultural staple, Steve hugs everyone he knows from back then. Hell, he even hugged Hopper the last time he saw him, if the back slapping manly facade counts as a real hug. Steve gets a hello embrace every time he’s over at the apartment, which tends to be about twice a week. He and Richie are extroverts, out most nights doing something, and Richie’s friends are far more likely to come out on five minutes notice than Jonathan and Nancy. The difference is today is one of the Four Days, and Steve is allowed to inhale deeply and smell Jonathan’s cologne as his face is pressed into his neck.

“The first thing we’re doing is getting baked and doing a puzzle,” Nancy announces as the hug disbands.

Steve’s not against the idea. He happens to know from Stan that puzzles are actually very satisfying. But just to be the devil's advocate, Steve points out it’s barely after noon.

“I have to be back at work by Sunday, I need to use all the free time I have.”

“It’s gotta be four twenty somewhere,” is Jonathan’s contribution.

“Load up the bong then,” Steve says. He knows they don’t have a bong. Nancy and Jonathan have a young teenager in Holly visiting on occasion, and they have to pretend to be good role models. They don’t even have any sex toys, for the same reason. If Steve had been thinking, he’d have brought his and Richie’s. Nobody on the planet expects him or Richie to be drug free role models.

It becomes clear as Jonathan packs their first bowl that they’re currently using different dealers. Their bud is in bigger chunks with little orangeish veins, and it smells way spicier. Jonathan buys from Richie occasionally, when he buys an ounce and doles it out to friends, but the stuff in the box under the couch at home right now is a much darker green, and earthy smelling. Steve happily breathes in the smoke, excited about the effects of something new.

The puzzle is oddly entertaining, Nancy was right. Steve doesn’t even need to tell her she was right, because she basically always is, and uses that fact to claim she always is. It’s one of the reasons they wouldn’t work as a couple. Jonathan has no problem calling her out when she’s full of shit, Steve had never. Steve finds and pulls together the edges, Nancy works on the purple patch, and Jonathan takes on the green. Eventually they integrate their sections and can really get a sense of their progress. 

When it’s done, no one has the heart to break it up and put it back in the box. They’ll have to sooner than later, it’s literally in the middle of the floor with nowhere else to put it, but right now it’s just a little too heartbreaking.

“Someone tell me a Christmas story,” Steve requests. They’re sandwiched on the futon together with mugs of creamy eggnog on the floor at their feet. No room for a coffee table, not with their square feet. It’s not spiked, they’re not crossing the streams of weed and alcohol, it just tastes really good. Like drinking cake. That’s the kind of mouthfeel Steve can appreciate while stoned.

“It’s my time off from stories, Steve,” Nancy whines. 

“Fine. Jonathan?”

“I’m a photographer, remember?”

“I know you’re working on El’s literacy,” Steve answers. Jonathan does a lot for his family, including his stepsister. 

“Yeah, with novels. She’s an adult, I don’t have any Christmas picture books here.”

“Make something up,” Steve suggests.

“How?”

What does he mean, how? Maybe Steve’s spoiled with artistic friends, but he’d be up to his eyeballs in bullshit by now from Richie or Bill, or even Mike or Ben if he allowed for non-fiction. 

“We should smoke another bowl and make some kitchen sink cookies,” Nancy decides.

Alternatively, they should do that, Steve agrees. He always has fun being Jonathan and Nancy’s sous chef. All the fun of cooking without any of the pressure of pulling a whole meal together. It’s a good activity choice, just like whatever the next activity will be, all leading up to whenever Nancy declares the next activity sex. Richie makes fun of the idea of an itinerary but Steve’s going to enjoy every minute of whatever’s on Nancy and Jonathan’s mind.

***

Things never start as early as Richie wants them to. It’s not that he’s that much of a horny bastard. Well, it is kind of. If that was entirely it he could have had more in depth sex with Steve. Yes, he wants to bone down with every single one of them right now, Bev included, despite being like a Kinsey 5.5. But Richie really just wants to be intimate with them. He gets why they all need to have their own lives. He loves his life with Steve, as much as Stan loves his with Patty, and Bev and Bill and Ben are committed as a triad. But there’s a hum in being together, like rolling on E without the pill, and what idiot waits halfway through the rave to pop their stash? His stupid fucking friends, apparently, because he’s the first to arrive at noon, and all three of the B’s are still wearing pants. Fully dressed, and wanting to watch a movie. Mental.

Richie knows Bev and Ben and Bill all take great pride in their home -nicknamed the Beehive the way English people name their properties- but he can tell some of it was designed with not just the three of them in mind. The couch in the main living room is one of those things. It’s an absurd custom built sectional. Absurd because of the unstandard furniture colour; a spring grass green that really pops against the icy blue-white walls. Absurd because it’s massive, a u shape that could easily seat ten, twelve if people wanted to get cozy. And absurd because it’s blatantly sex furniture. Two sides of the couch have a back rest, it’s true, but the third is just like a no sheets needed bed attached to a normal couch. It’s like built in seating to view something that might happen horizontally. 

Richie wants to goddamn get horizontal, _right now_. Instead he forces himself to sit crosslegged at the top of the bed section, the furthest he can be away from the trio. If he doesn’t he’s going to be on Ben in five minutes, and it’ll suck hard when he gets rebuffed. When, not if, because this isn’t just about one or two of them, and he knows from past Four Days events that nothing will happen until all the Losers are together.

It’s not like it’s all bad, though. Eddie arrives and the movie currently on screen instantly gets hilariously roasted, pulled apart, completely drawn and quartered. Bev and Bill were doing decent commentary, but Eddie’s directed vitriol is unmatched. Richie could sit with his chin on his palm, elbow on his knee, sighing with hearts in his eyes for days. And Mike arrives, grocery bags in hands and begins working on building them elaborate drinks and appetizers. Bill would have bought all his ingredients without a second glance at the clearly hefty total, but Mike wants it all to be a surprise. Besides the KitKat hot chocolate, of course, that’s just routine necessity. Richie’d love to Lady and the Tramp a KitKat stick with him, but he holds it back. 

Stan arrives last. He always works a full shift on Christian holidays because they pay double and it’s not like he cares. It being the dead of winter, it’s already dark when the sound of a car struggling up the icy driveway rings out. Richie doesn’t bolt up from his seat but it’s a close thing. He sure the hell can’t resist striking his leg out to hook Stan off balance so the man can crash land on him once he lets himself in. It’s too long since Richie’s had Stan’s hands on him. Sure they all hung out last week, but last week wasn’t one of the Four Days.

Stan extracts himself from Richie’s limbs, and without an iota of guilt grabs a mug of peanut butter chocolate wafer crumb hot chocolate from the coffee table. _Richie’s_ mug. Richie knows Stan knows, because they all got drunk together and painted winter mugs last December. Thief bastard. He’s blocking practically everyone’s view of the tv, but no one cares, least of all Mike, who’s watching raptly as Stan happily guzzles his creation.

“How was work? Any cool stories?” Bev asks kindly. Too kindly.

“Come on, no one thinks accounting stories are cool,” Richie says. Stan’s here, they’re the lucky seven now, he wants to bypass the talk and get Stan’s peanuty tongue in his mouth.

“Speak for yourself, asshole,” Eddie snaps.

“Says the risk analy-” Richie interrupts himself with a snore. He’s not entirely surprised when Eddie wings a pillow at him and gets him in the face.

“Oh come on, where’s the Christmas spirit?” Ben cajoles.

“It’s got a reindeer slipcover?” Bill says.

“Eddie, on your behalf, let me.” Stan snatches a throw pillow from behind Mike’s resting head and thwomps Richie repeatedly. Richie giggles like he’s twelve again, and Stan’s smiling above him. It’s good.

“Do you guys want to go tobogganing before dinner? I mean we could go ice skating too, but it takes less skill to hop on a sheet of cardboard,” Bill says.

Richie does not want to go tobogganing on Christmas Eve. He wants to suck someone’s dick, like he told his boyfriend. Except for how he kind of does want to go tobogganing. There aren’t a lot of good situational memories from Derry, most of Richie’s memories are totally garbage situations they only got through with the power of friendship. Everyone and everything in Derry sucked ass. That said, there was a calm in biking and swimming and sledding, things that got them away from others.

They go tobogganing. They take Mike’s van, because between the seven of them they have all car types important for various missions; van, pick up truck, SUV, and convertible, and a willingness to trade keys when necessary. Ben directs Eddie -the only one to have not had any of the Kaluha hot chocolate, and the most stern about even slightly tipsy driving thanks to his career- to some random nearby residential street. There’s a retention pond, because that’s the kind of neighbourhood this is. It’s deeply frozen over, the temperature having been subartic for weeks now. Even Eddie can’t find danger in tugging the slippery mass of crazy carpets out of the back and lining them in a row at the top of the slope.

It’s fun as fuck. There’s no other way to say it. The plastic sheet slides wildly down the hill each time, and they’re all screaming with adrenaline and laughter. Bill reminds them all of the trick to get crazy carpets to start spinning out, and then they’re all tempting fate. More than once someone lets go of the handle and just fucking launches through the air before tucking limbs and rolling to a stop. At one point Bev goes back to the car and gets second pairs of mitts for everyone to cram into their toques as more padding for an awkward landing. The snow’s too packed to wrench some up and start throwing snowballs, but that doesn’t mean there’s not a facewash or ten. Richie’s glasses have never been more snow speckled, and he’s never been happier.

There’s a special place in Richie’s heart for Mike. And okay, yeah, that’s not the most unique statement, there’s a special place for all of them. If there wasn’t he wouldn’t be attending four orgies a year. But Mike- he spent a year at university with Mike before dropping out. Mike was the first Loser he came out to, so scared he was nearly retching, only to be pulled into a hug a billion times more soothing and affectionate than his parents ever managed to be. So no, things aren’t starting yet, that’ll be back at the Beehive. But they’re starting to start, Eddie refusing to share a sled unless Bill cuddles in behind him, and Bev complimenting Stan’s scarf and digging her finger into the bulky fringe, so Richie can forgive himself his impatience in kissing Mike as they both reach the top of the pond at the same time.

Mike fully returns the kiss, every last instant of it. When they part, he smiles, and says “soon, okay? I promise.”

It’s the most gentle let down someone could offer. Richie loves Mike all the more for the man not wanting to hurt him. The life he’s chosen, not a lot of people are gentle with him, not even his best friends. Richie can handle postponement, if this is the way it’s handed to him.

***

Steve’s eyes are closed and his head against Nancy’s head as Rudolph is on their tv. He’s not falling asleep, he’s not tired, it’s only ten or so. The weed is just making his lids droop, and it’s not like he hasn’t seen this special a hundred times. 

“Steve,” Nancy says with a giggle in her voice.

“Yeah?” He answers without moving.

“I bought a new Christmas bra. You wanna see it?”

That's enough to get him to sit at attention. “Yes please.”

His manners make Nancy giggle again, and Jonathan laugh. He leans over as his -theirs, for tonight- girlfriend gets up and makes for the bedroom. “I’m not laughing at you,” he explains earnestly. “I just know what’s coming.”

He seals the kindness with a kiss to Steve’s neck. Steve shudders. It’s a move Steve associates with Jonathan. He’s always the big spoon, always coming up from behind. Richie’s not like that, not at all. Steve leans his head as though Nancy’s shoulder was still there, and lets his neck be ravished from earlobe to shoulder. It’s on now, officially. He’d had strong suspicions minutes ago, at Nancy wanting to flash him, but sometimes girls just like to show off cool purchases. Steve’s seen Bev in a newly bought bikini, and they don’t have any kind of Four Days promise. Jonathan taking him apart neck first is the confirmation stamp.

Nancy walks out of the bedroom some time later looking no different. Well, maybe a little, it looks like she’s touched up her hair. Steve can appreciate a gesture like that, he knows it’s for him specifically. But she’s in the same red sweater with a snowman on it. The same contrasting blue skirt is still underneath. The delicate locket Barb’s parents let her take is on now, as it always is. Steve sees no hint of sexiness, beyond Nancy’s nature allure. 

The contrast makes the reveal all the better. Nancy pulls the heavy wooden sweater off to show, well, her tits. There’s no _bra_ to her bra. It’s just straps. It’s triangle shaped straps, red ones, perfectly tracing the shape of her breasts. Her nipples are already hard, clearly turned on by showing off her mastery of the human form. Because that’s what she is, she’s the best humankind has to offer, the hottest woman to ever exist. Steve loves Richie with all his heart, but he could never be pinnacle womanhood like this.

“Told you,” Jonathan whispers into his ear. Steve would point out he never actually disagreed, but his tongue is stuck in his mouth, dry and useless. He feels like a deer innocently trotting through the forest only to be slammed into by an idiot who shouldn’t have a license. Just completely fucking blindsided. 

In an effort to get his body back under his control, he bends forward to grab his eggnog and take his sip. It coats his mouth in deliciousness, but it doesn’t help in being able to speak. Especially not when the mug’s back down and he straightens to find Jonathan’s much closer now, practically fully tucked behind him. Steve’s not sure where exactly Jonathan’s put his right leg, but he’s on him now.

“Come on Nance, be nice. Let him touch.”

“I want to touch you so bad,” his mouth finally lets him express. “God, fuck, please.”

Whether it’s Jonathan’s polite admonishment, Steve’s desperation, or they’ve been conspiring to do this the whole time -and really, it’s probably the last one, Nancy always has plans- the words make Nancy stride over. She bends to kiss him once, fiercely, tasting like waxy lipstick on top of the nog, then moves so that Steve can bury his face in her breasts. The red straps are a barrier he can’t help but tease with his fingertips. 

As Steve’s giving Nancy’s tits the best licking he can administer, Jonathan takes the opportunity to unbuckle his belt and unzip his zipper. He can feel Jonathan’s hand dip into his open jeans. Steve has to breathe a moan into Nancy’s skin when his hand gropes his cock for the first time. It’s been too long, it’s been all the way since Labour day, since Jonathan last touched him like this. He likes it, way more than any normal member of society would say is okay.

Steve finds himself being pulled down onto the futon, placed on his side on the edge of the piece while Jonathan is tucked between the back of the couch and Steve. Some wriggling gets their jeans and underwear kicked off, landing somewhere, who cares where. Steve doesn’t care, because Nancy’s kneeling in front of him with her tongue in his mouth, and she’s wriggling a little too, and when she reads back she’s holding her panties in her petite hand.

“You’re so hot,” Steve tells her. He’s so hard for her. He’s not sure Jonathan can even see her, laying the way he is behind Steve, which means the erection he has pressing against Steve’s ass is either all for Steve, or it’s the anticipation of sex to come. Either answer’s good for Steve.

Jonathan makes Steve prove his flexibility then. He curls their legs together, and angles it up so his foot is propped on the back of the futon. It’s a total pornstar angle. It’s enough to make him blush as Nancy takes his exposure as the chance to drop lube onto her fingers and press them inside him. She starts with two, in part because her fingers are so slim, in part because she surely suspects Steve already got fucked once today. Nancy and Richie have this running dirty gag where each time they meet they report the number of hours it’s been since they last got laid. She knows better than anyone how often Steve gets fucked. Steve hasn’t, in actuality, but he doesn’t complain. It’s embarrassing, and hot, and the slightest bit stinging, and he never wants it to stop. He encourages three, then four, and then Jonathan’s cock is pushing its way inside him, no comparison to Nancy’s fingers. Steve squeezes his eyes shut and groans as Jonathan enters him to the hilt. It’s so fucking _everything_. 

Closed eyes are the reason he doesn’t see Nancy, doesn’t know what’s about to happen until it’s too late. Not that it’s a bad surprise, having lips suddenly on his cock. His eyes explode open, to the stunning vision of her brunette locks at his groin, hair swaying as she moves her head. It’s the second time he’s gotten blown in one day, he might be in heaven. Not that the events can compare at all. Richie and Nancy give oral like night and day. Richie’s fast, sloppy, and not averse to gagging. Nancy’s more deliberate, and with a jaw half the size of Richie’s, focuses mostly on the head of his cock. It sounds like a step down, maybe, but she keeps pressing the tip of her tongue in Steve’s slit, and it’s going to give Steve an aneurysm. His brain is just gonna quit, over how much he needs to come, between Jonathan’s slow deep fucking and Nancy’s superb tongue work.

And the best thing? Once everyone comes and does some kind of small pleasure activity like splitting a box of chocolates or playing cards, they’ll probably do it all again. They won’t be pulling an all nighter, like at Richie’s party, but Steve’s certain Nancy and Jonathan have planned at least one, if not two more encounters. They always have another trick up their sleeves, another sexy bra down their collars.

***

The drive back from the pond is normal, or as normal as they get, but it’s immediately obvious upon entering the Beehive that it’s time, that shit will be kicking off momentarily. It’s a clusterfuck of people getting their outside clothes off in the foyer, and entirely too many smouldering looks being exchanged. Bev helps Stan out of his jacket and scarf, and once she sees his jeans are soaked from the snow, his pants come off too. They’re all damp and cold, but Richie barely cares about his clothes, occupied with how intimately Bev is helping a shivering Stan peel off everything. She stops at henley and undies, which is really just a shame. If it was Richie, he’s not sure he’d be able to stop until he was dropping to his knees in the snowy wet spots, blowing the beautiful blond. At least Bev’s movements give everyone the excuse to wriggle out of wet jeans and leave them scattered along the foyer.

The moment his parka is hung, leather gloves tucked neatly into his pockets -unlike Richie, who’s flung his wet mitts and hat onto the air vent- Eddie informs them all that he’s going to take a shower to get the cold sweat off. Richie is instantly certain that whoever agrees with the idea is about to get pounded in the shower. Richie’d consider it, but he really wants to start off with a group thing. There’s room for four at most in the shower, even Ben’s opulence can only order a water tank so large. 

“Yeah, I’ll pop in too. Warm up a little,” Bill says. 

Warm up a lot, Richie mentally corrects. Hard not to flush when Eddie’s got his speed demon pelvis against you.

The rest of them head for the living room nearest the kitchen. Because the Beehive has more than one living room. Because Bill’s _super_ stacked. It’s kind of amazing what three New York Times best seller novels in three years can get you. He’s in talks to do a movie. Richie hopes it goes through. If it does, no way the Losers aren’t all extras. Richie would kick the shit out of the role of dog walker number two. 

Prompted by seeing the kitchen entryway, Mike offers to make another batch of delicious drinks. Richie tells him in the nicest possible way not to bother. None of them will be savouring it like it deserves. Before Richie can condemn himself for being too dismissive, he reminds himself it’s the same reason none of them head for their guest room’s closet, where each of them have a change or two hanging, instead traipsing through the mansion in t-shirts and underwear. Everyone knows there’s no point in getting redressed. It’s not just him on edge anymore, it’s everyone. 

Despite the tension clicking up with each second, they do all stop at the trunk in the living room to pull a mass of throw blankets out and wrap themselves up. Richie’s okay with it. Goosebumps aren’t sexy unless you have a temperature play kink. The second he warms up from hours outdoors he’ll instigate something. 

The blankets are good for two things. They’re different patterns and sizes but all uniformly soft. They invite cuddling. Stan gets pulled into Bev’s lap on the lounge part of the sectional, and doesn’t resist for a moment as she drapes a blanket over them. Mike lies on the opposite side with his head in Ben’s lap. For his own part, Richie is nestled in beside Ben, close enough to smell his cologne and drying sweat. They’re also feathery light, fluffy in the best way. With every minute shift the blanket drags against all his bare skin, far more sensual than he would have guessed.

Richie is Eeny Meeny Minee Moeing through if he should crawl on top of Mike and start grinding, twist to Ben and make out with him, or turn the other way to Stan and Bev to see what their hands are doing under the blankets when it happens. Bill’s moan echoes out of the bathroom. Whatever Bill and Eddie are doing, it’s not scrubbing behind each other’s ears. The noise hits Richie in the same way guffaws while on stage do; he’ll do anything for more. If he can’t have it, he’ll create it. 

Richie pivots to Ben, nearly a 180, blanket twisting around him. He leans in to press his lips against Ben’s. It’s not the first time since Labour Day it’s happened, they’re a handsy and affectionate group, but it’s the first that’s been allowed to mean anything. At the same time, Richie curls his left hand on Mike’s throat. Richie knew of the kink way before anyone got to try it out -way back in university, after a particularly wild one night stand of Mike’s- but he’s grateful now to put it into practice. The way Mike goes boneless as Richie gently constricts his airway as he makes out with Ben is truly a sight to behold. 

Beside him Bev and Stan whip off their blanket. Stan’s still wearing his briefs, surprisingly, but he’s rock hard and straining the fabric. Undoubtedly caused by the scratch marks all over his thighs. A few of them like that, but Stan most of all. It’s one of the good things about multiple partners, Bev can keep her nails long and polished because there are plenty of other trimmed hands who can prep if needed or wanted. Bev can scratch them until their hearts content, but she can’t finger anyone. It’s a trade off. 

Richie’s got his free hand rubbing over Ben’s boxers, moved from its place on Ben’s cut jawline when the floorboards creak. It’s instinctual to turn and check his six, borne from days of Bowers and nights of sewers, to pull his face out of Ben’s gentle hands to make sure nothing’s there with a thousand teeth. But of course it’s just Bill and Eddie, freshly rinsed and still a little damp. Bill’s wearing one of the dressing gowns hung in the master bathroom, loosely tied and showing an enticing v of chest hair. Eddie’s got a lush burgundy towel slung around his hips, wet hair dropping beads of glistening water over his shoulders.

“That’s a good look for you, almost as good as the short shorts,” Richie calls out.

Eddie sighs. “Shut up about the short shorts. No one cares about the short shorts.”

“I care about the short shorts,” Richie defends. No one else chimes in, though he’s certain Stan and Mike used to check Eddie out in them too.

“It was ten years ago, get over it!”

“Never!”

Bill reaches out and yanks Eddie’s wrapped towel off, discarding it to the floor. He’s flaccid, clearly having just spent himself in the shower, but that means nothing. Tonight is a marathon, not a sprint. They’ll all be orgasming at their personal bests. Richie’s at seven in twenty four hours, and some of that was spent sleeping, like a chump. He aims to only do better in the future. 

“Get over it,” Bill repeats.

“Show me why,” Richie counter offers. 

And Eddie does begin to prove why minuscule shorts are not the sexiest he’s ever been. Which duh, of course Richie already knew that. He’s seen Eddie getting spit roasted for fucksakes. It’s just fun to provoke the little brunet menace. It results in things like this, things like Eddie settling on the cushion beside him and pulling his underwear down to his knees and spitting in his asscrack. Coming from the average person it’d be like six outta ten dirty. From Eddie it’s like two hundred and thirty out of ten. But Eddie’s annoyed, and horny, and kind of loves him, the way they all love each other, for right or wrong. They’ve all gone to extremes for each other over the years. Hell, they might die for each other in fourteen years. For Richie, Eddie will spit.

While Richie is busy getting manhandled against the backrest, Eddie’s saliva wet fingers beginning to pry him open, the lovers around him begin to ramp up. Bill joins Bev and Stan, tracing his fingertips up her legs as he sucks on Stan’s cock through his briefs. Ben gets off the couch, kindly retrieving a bottle of lube half hidden beside the tv and delivering it to Eddie before laying on top of Mike. It’s hard to decide which way to turn his head, to watch Stan writhing while biting on a knuckles, Bev pulling her nails over his shoulders, or Ben grinding down on top of Mike with his thumbs lovingly on his adam's apple. Richie gets as far as stretching an arm out and weaving fingers through Ben’s hair before his eyes stutter closed at Eddie’s bare cock pushing into him. 

One of these events Eddie is going to come in betraying the philosophy of polyamory, the negotiation of Four Days, Richie’s sure. He dates women who would never allow this type of thing, would never even hear the conversation Eddie might try to broach. He’d also never give them up, of this Richie is certain. So some holiday Richie will be helping Eddie commit adultery. And he doesn’t _care_. He loves Eddie too much to fuck with his base nature, even if it includes awful taste in women, Bev excepted. Richie loves him, he loves getting fucked by him, and he loves everyone else in this room watching and hearing him get fucked. By Eddie, and by everyone else. It’s kind of funny, how much he ends up in the starring role, the bottoming ingenue, when he’s with all the Losers. Equal opportunity with Steve, when they’re alone, but give him an audience and he knows exactly what he wants. Lucky for him, the night is long and it’s going to happen over and over again. 

***

The phone rings at nine and wakes Steve up. At the unplanned noise it’s automatic for Steve to sit upright and look around for the melee weapon that isn’t there. At home there’s a baseball bat in the bedroom. The gates are closed forever, hopefully. Pennywise won’t be back for another fourteen years, if it comes back at all. It’ll still never not be in the back of their minds. The blunt instruments Richie saved Bill with and Steve saved Jonathan with will never not be a comfort blanket. Richie’s even got a stand up bit about his parents flying to Chicago to take the baseball bat away for his own good, like Jumps the stuffed frog or his nightlight. What bull. Like the Toziers have ever shelled out to visit their son at the quote, epicentre of his lazy dumbassery, end quote.

Nancy and Jonathan are not acting like it’s an unknown threat. Yes, they’re both sitting up and reaching for robes, but there’s nothing frantic and pulse pounding about it. When the fight or flight fade a little it becomes obvious why. It’s Christmas Day. Christmas morning. It’s obviously Will, and the phone call between brothers is going to last for hours.

Steve doesn’t book it immediately. He says his hellos to the members of the Byers-Hopper family. It’s not particularly suspicious that he’s over, on this side of the phone. The kids probably think something wholesome, like Christmas breakfast, while the adults probably think he passed out on Christmas wine and slept over. Or maybe it’s the other way around. After all, Joyce and Jim are long out of their glory days, and ‘the kids’ are in their early twenties. Steve just can't help but think of El and Will like that. They’ll all always be the kids. Steve practically changed Dustin’s diapers.

Eventually though, he does need to go. Technically speaking they still have a few hours of the Four Days treatise left, but it’s not like anything’s going to happen now. Not when Nancy and Jonathan are sitting side by side with their ear jammed to the phone to hear whatever Mike has to say about the gifts they mailed his wife, Jonathan’s step-sister. Steve drops a kiss onto both of their free cheeks, and heads out. It’s not that he’s feeling like he’s an intrusion. They’ve all been through too much together for everyone to not be family. He’s just got his own places to be.

Today is not his and Richie’s first Four Days. It is the first where Steve isn’t going directly home afterwards. Instead he’s driving to the Beehive, his boyfriend’s successful friends’ mansion. _His_ successful friends’ mansion. That’s the crux of it, after all. He’s not a Loser, never can be. But the six of them consider him close enough to invite over for Christmas Day breakfast. Say what you want about the Party’s heroism engendered codependency, most of them have decent parents, or at least some sort of positive role model. Once Steve gets home he’ll be making a bevy of Christmas calls to such people. Robin, Dustin and Mrs Henderson, Aunt Yvonne. The Losers don’t have that. Exactly zero of them have family worth talking to, family worth trying to shove love into the yawning chasm of a black hole for. They have each other and each other only, and Steve gets how that blurs the lines of friendship, family, and lovers. But he’s invited to breakfast, because he counts now. So does Patty, Stan’s current girlfriend, likely future fiance, though Steve doesn’t see her car in the massive driveway yet.

Steve is able to let himself in, door unlocked. One hundred percent guarantee that that safety hazard wasn’t Eddie’s idea. He walks in, unsure of what he’ll find. Richie told him to come at ten or later, before the twenty four hours is technically up, and according to the rules everyone negotiated last year that means they could still be doing stuff, but would Richie really have him walk in on it? Do they owe each other concealment? It’s not like they don’t meet at home on other Four Days covered in hickies and scratches and bruises, even occasionally exotic shit like food residue or rope burns. It’s not like they don’t share stories. Steve probably knows more about Bill’s dick than he knows about baseball.

His worries, his musing on etiquette and if they should talk about it -a little too late now, Richie extended Bill’s invitation like three weeks ago- all dissipate like smoke when Steve finds them. They’re all in the kitchen, the seven of them bustling around each other making like ten different dishes so smoothly it’s almost choreographed. Eddie’s sitting on the counter watching a vat of eggs being hard boiled on the back burner while Stan’s making latkes and Bill kosher sausages on the front burners. Bev’s got a griddle set up on the other side of the stove with nearly an entire loaf of bread slices turning into French toast. Ben’s making elaborate tea blends with his spice rack of loose leaves. Steve can smell the mug cakes cooking in the microwave, and there’s definitely something in the oven. Even useless in the kitchen Richie is chopping up a honeydew, a barrel of already cubed cantaloupe pineapple and strawberries in front of him. Besides the sex hair, it’s so familial you’d never guess an orgy had just taken place.

There’s a round of outcry as they notice him. No one acts for an instant like they regret inviting him, or like they’re annoyed he accepted a perfunctory invitation. Instead it’s smiles all around, like it’s any other day of the week and they’ve met up at a pub or theatre. 

“Just in time!”

“Good morning!”

“Morning Steve!”

“Go get changed,” Bill instructs. Steve heads for another room automatically, backpack in hand. Some voices are meant to be followed. Nancy. Robin. El. Bill.

According to Richie, Ben’s had a long standing tradition of Christmas themed pyjamas on Christmas Day, as far back as high school. Anyone around Señor Hanscom gets roped into it, and now Steve makes the cut. The pyjamas he pulls out of his bag are plain green pants and a green top with a stocking on it. They aren’t the best winter jammies in the room, he notices as he reenters the kitchen, to cheers and compliments to the contrary. Stan’s non-denominational penguins are cute as fuck, and Steve likes the eye searing saturated colours of Richie’s ornament print set. But they’re warm and comfy, two things needed after a night of fucking and sleep deprivation. However many hours Steve got, he’s certain Richie got less, if he even slept at all. 

It’s kind of amazing, how all the food is ready in a swift cascade. Richie’s done chopping, Stan’s out of potato shreds, Eddie’s pulling out egg after egg from the boiling water with a ladle. It’s like it’s impeccably scheduled, five star restaurant style, except Steve’s sure it wasn’t scheduled whatsoever, it’s just how they are. They just fit each other’s rhythm. But Eddie puts an egg on a plate and hands it to him without asking, and Ben has crafted him a cup of something deliciously fragrant, so how can Steve possibly be jealous?

Despite the Beehive having both a fully furnished kitchen and a more formal dining room, once everyone’s loaded their plates they retire to the main living room. It doesn’t smell like jizz and sweat and lube, though Steve has no doubts something happened here in the last twenty four hours. With a sectional this outstanding, how could it not? All the Losers are moving a little gingerly, a lot sluggish and exhausted. This is the part they don’t show in the pornos, how everyone is fucked out and drained after. Even if Steve was content to share Richie always -unreciprocated, because he knows Team Newspaper like their alone time and wouldn’t be up for it- even if Patty and Eddie’s girlfriend of the month and 3B were all cool with an always open thing emotionally, physically it’s impossible. They’d fuck themselves to death, and Steve’s been in a few too many near death scenarios to make a joke about it being a good way to go. There’s no good way to go.

They arrange themselves on the soft couch, plates balanced on knees and mugs braced against shins or thighs. Steve ends up with Richie on one side and Stan on the other, and is fully privy to the good natured eye roll of Stan turning the tv to the weather channel so carols can ring out through the room. Steve can only hope the songs stick to the Santa and snow themes, go light on the Jesus stuff. Steve’s never been to a midnight mass in his life, not remotely into the holiday for any of that stuff, but he can only imagine how much more annoying it is for Stan. He’ll just do his part to talk over it, drown it out until everyone goes their separate ways. Everyone else is already doing so, anyway.

Across the couch Bill is chatting with Mike about a horror concept he’s workshopping, something about creatures in the snow. In the middle, Bev is complimenting Ben on the juniper taste of her tea. Beside him, Stan is complaining to Eddie that it’s been hours and his coat and scarf are still wet with snow melt. It’s the best kind of friendship when multiple conversations can happen at once. Steve spent far too long struggling for first place and ego domination to ever want to participate in one voice and ten silent sycophants again. 

“Have a good night?” Steve doesn’t bother to say it out of earshot, because he knows the answer in the weary glow of Richie’s face and it’s nothing they can’t hear. He also doesn’t bother to swallow his bite of French toast before asking, because manners are for people like his parents, people Steve will never let himself be.

“I got fucked five times,” Richie answers.

“So yes, then,” Steve laughs. In their home it’s fifty fifty who bottoms, but the Losers work a little differently. 

“I made my best friends come like eight hundred times. No shit, yes.”

“We love you too, Rich,” Ben says sweetly.

Steve knows they do. It’s a core truth, one fact of reality that holds true even when holes in dimensions and aliens exist. The Losers love Richie, and the Party loves Steve. Making sure to move slowly and not jostle the heaping plate of food on his leg, Steve leans to the side and rests his head on Richie’s broad shoulder. 

“Love you, ‘Chee. Merry Christmas,” he whispers.

“Merry Christmas, babe.”


End file.
